Beauty is Pain
by ichitan
Summary: Lydia finds it so hard to fight off Peter, especially when she doesn't really want him to leave.


The grated hiss of your scissors is the only sound in the room.

A lock of reddish blonde hair lands on your desk.

Your fingers work quickly, snipping off chunk after chunk.

Stiles said you looked "so pretty." Everyone always says you look "so pretty."

"So pretty" that what? That you will cut off all your hair. That you will not wear makeup. That you will adorn yourself with purple monkshood and dirty your flesh. Will you still look "so pretty?"

Peter will think you look be beautiful. He is whispering it right now as he rubs your shaking arm.

"I will always find you beautiful."

You nod, drawing in a shaky breath. His calloused fingers draw spirals on your milky skin. In the back of your mind, you wonder idly if he's got you in some sort of trance. The thought fades soon enough.

You look at the mirror and almost don't recognize yourself. Your once long, pretty hair sticks out in uneven shocks, each strand barely an inch long. He stands to look at your reflection.

"Look at you," he sighs, his hands gently rubbing your shoulders. "You're so beautiful."

As one of his hands slides down your chest, his breath on the back of your exposed neck, you ponder your visage. Pale, chapped, bloodied and bitten lips; sunken, tired eyes surrounded by dark, bruise-like circles. You frown.

But it's so hard not to feel beautiful with his fingers between your thighs, and you moan softly, watching your face contort with pleasure. With his free hand he picks a little flower from your desk—one of the many which now seem to be blooming wherever you go—and places it in your hair.

"Look at you, look at you," he continues to coo, and your eyelids close. When his voice fades, you slowly open your eyes. The flowers are gone, and so is he.

You sigh, tilt your head back, and pull your hand from between your legs.

"I am not so pretty," you mumble.

Your mother shrieks when she sees you the next morning, running over to see if you're alright. You don't really react. She tells you to stay home from school today. You find it hard to care. She sends you back to your room while she makes a few frantic phone calls. You wordlessly follow orders, barely making any sound as you head back up to your room.

Peter is waiting, sitting on your bed.

"What's wrong?" he asks, frowning when he sees you. Your face scrunches up as you begin to cry, running to the bed. He wraps you up in his arms, rocking you just a little.

"Mom thinks I look awful," you mumble into his shirt. You feel Peter reach over and grab something off your nightstand. It's a flower, you realize as he tucks in behind your ear.

"And how do you say you look?"

You think about it, looking across your room to your mirror, then back up at him. Your rational mind screams at you, but as Peter smiles down at you, it's hard to say anything but "beautiful."

Peter's absolutely hypnotizing, laying you down on your sheets underneath his imposing frame.

"I can make you feel beautiful," he murmurs, nuzzling at your neck. "And I will."

He slips his hands under the waistband of your pajamas and tugs them down to your knees, biting down hard on your neck. When you almost scream out, he presses his bloodstained lips to yours, and you can taste the iron as your own blood fills your mouth with his kiss.

Peter moves very fluidly over you, his firm hands holding you down as he slides into you, making you sigh into his collar.

Everyone would disapprove. He is a monster, they would scream. But he is your doing.

Peter is precious to you in moments like these—when you're fairly certain you've lost your mind and you don't want anyone to see you, Peter will remind you that you and him are bound by these fits of insanity. He will tell you that you are precious to him like this, too.

But why?

"I need you."

"But why me? Because I'm immune?"

He strokes your cheek, looking somewhat frustrated despite his smile. You're becoming self-aware, you think briefly.

"Because you're beautiful," he says, leaning up to kiss your forehead. You squint your eyes shut and tense up, feeling as if the kiss will leave some sort of permanent mark. When you open them again, you're alone, naked in your bed, fingers wet with blood and cum.

You sit up look at yourself in the mirror. Not much has changed since last night, except now your neck is all scratched up and you feel somewhat filthy.

"I'm not beautiful," you spit, furious and disgusted with yourself. How could you stoop so low?

You run out of the house before your mother can take you to the therapist, and you can picture her freaking out and calling the Sheriff to put out a Missing Persons Report. It occurs to you that, while the police can't file one after 24 hours for normal circumstances, you're technically mentally unstable and the rules are more than likely different.

You need to be quick.

"Lydia," Peter says when you arrive at his burnt-out home. "I can't say this is an unexpected surprise."

"Leave me alone," you say, clenching your fists. He smirks.

"Lydia, I haven't even touched you. It's all in your head."

"And you're the one doing it!" you shout. "Do you think I want this? It all started when you bit me. I brought you back, what more do you need from me?"

"I just want you to be happy," he tries, but you cut him off.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Peter. You can drown me in sweet nothings, but in the end that's all they are. You're grooming me so that you can use me again. Well that's it. I'm done."

Peter smiles, laughs. "You think it's that simple? You can just…tell me to back off?"

"No. But I can kill myself, and where would that leave you?"

"As if you would do that," he scoffs.

"Don't you fucking test me, Peter. I'm not the girl I was when you bit me. You changed me." You turn to leave, stomping the leafy ground. "You changed me, and I don't know who I am anymore, but I am not your puppet."

You rap anxiously on the door.

"You look terrible," Stiles says as he answers it.


End file.
